


hard to be soft, tough to be tender

by nagatha_christie



Category: BBC Radio 1 RPF
Genre: Anal Sex, Body Image, Body Worship, Bottom Nick, Casual Sex, Clubbing, Communication, Enthusiastic Consent, Flirting, Healing, Heartbreak, Insecurity, Intimacy, Light BDSM, M/M, Oral Sex, Power Bottom Nick, Safer Sex, Snogging, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-03
Updated: 2019-03-03
Packaged: 2019-11-06 01:10:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17929904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nagatha_christie/pseuds/nagatha_christie
Summary: They fall into stride together, Nick’s chest gone light and fluttery with anticipation. Nick glances at Mesh every few seconds. There's intention in his gaze and focus in his walk, like he’s noting each step.Christ.It’s always the quiet ones Nick goes hardest for. Much as he tries to curb his urges with aheadydose of self-sabotage, he’s always lured back in—the draw of softness lurking behind him, even as the decades pass him by. It’s like a second shadow, only more annoying.Nick hates it, some days. But he never can resist.





	hard to be soft, tough to be tender

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blueskybuzz77](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=blueskybuzz77).



> i've been feeling Quite Inspired lately, and so excited to publish this, i didn't have a beta reader for it. spent a week honing the story i wanted to tell, and now i'm ready to set it free. the title is from a metric song, and i'm in the process of creating an 8tracks playlist to better set the tone. 
> 
> for lovely georgia. i adore you. this story is as much yours as it is mine - as much yours is it is theirs. 
> 
> and, dear readers, i hope you see yourselves in it, too.
> 
> (also, if you are in this fic or know anybody in this fic, kindly hit the backspace as asap as possible, thanks)
> 
> light content warning: since this is largely a fic about nick and his feelings on getting older, desirability politics and body image are both common themes all throughout this story. also: in the interest of being true to the characters, there are a few instances of light ableism (in their casual use of 'mad') as well as one mention of the slightly shamey 'clean' to mean someone who's tested negative for STI's. take care of yourself in reading this fic, my loves
> 
> enjoy!! xx

Nick takes in a big shaky breath as he stumbles out from the club. Too many fit young couples, too many blinding strobe lights. _Too much, too much._

He's too old for this, probably—doesn’t _get_ it the way he used to. But it’s a pill Nick’s unwilling to swallow, so he takes out his wallet instead of his tube card, checking to see how many more vodka sodas he can hack from the cash-only bar. Still a bit pissed, Nick screws up his face, struggling to calculate simple maths.

A group of men spills out in Nick’s wake, shouting with raucous, drunken joy and swinging their arms all around each other’s shoulders.

Nick glances over, and Billy’s not with them. He’ll see Billy Monday morning, then, rumpled and messy and carping about his hangover. A familiar glint of mischief ought to be in his eyes, too, because of course—because whatever’s happened, at least he’s gotten a good story out of it.

Billy always does.

There’s a man leaned against the wall a couple feet down from Nick, lighting a cigarette. Nick can’t see his face clearly, but he catches a glimpse of bright eyes under the brim of his black cap, and an easy smirk as his lips purse round his cigarette.

Nick envies his quilted leather jacket—and the way it suits him like a second skin, the finishing touch to this persona. Though the jacket’s big in the shoulders and short at the wrists, he wears it like a model. He could be, actually—just a bit taller than Nick, too, which makes him go weak in the knees.

After a long drag, he catches Nick’s eyes, and holds his gaze, eyes flickering over him. He gives Nick a hot, subtle stare up and down.

Nick swallows hard. One second is an accident, two seconds is a consideration. _Five_ seconds—well, everyone knows what five seconds means.

The bloke is the one to break off first, cheeks hollowing as he returns to his cigarette. He’s got a jawline to cut glass. There’s a baby face behind his close-cropped facial hair, long lashes below his dark, groomed brows. It’s almost enough to make him not look intimidating as hell.

He looks like Freddie Mercury, actually, in the black jacket with the white vest underneath. Nick wonders if it’s trendy, or just an accident. He might not even _like_ Queen. He can’t be much older than twenty.

Nick himself has a Botox consult booked next week. So it’s mad to even _think_ this bloke could want him. It is—isn’t it.

If there’s anything Nick’s learned, it’s to be cautious. These days, he finds himself reading gazes like tarot, trying to suss out the starfuckers. Or else those like Josh, who _are_ starfuckers, but don’t look it. So they string blokes along for ages, give them breadcrumbs of love before breaking their hearts. Those ones are worse.

(Turns out, Nick’s not very good at tarot cards _or_ at pegging who the starfuckers are—but he does try. Trying is the only thing he does, lately.)

When Nick senses the bloke looking at him again, Nick notices what his face lacks, more than what’s present. Because there’s _not_ the familiar stare of recognition, or the wide eyes of desperation. There isn’t the red-flag glimmer of someone who’s just after his fame and his connections.

All Nick can see on the bloke’s face is curiosity, a playfulness in his dark brown eyes.

Nick leans back against the wall and clutches his phone in his jacket pocket. He wants to dick around, just to keep busy as he’s scrounging up every bit of bottle he has. But Nick doesn’t want the bloke to think he’s bored or waiting on a cab.

So he fidgets with his bracelets instead, shifts his weight from foot to foot, and watches the Saturday night traffic roll by.

The Freddie Mercury thing _could_ be a good icebreaker; Nick grows more curious, wondering if that’s the aim with the bloke’s look. He hesitates in asking. He doesn’t know whether Freddie was from India, Africa, or had roots someplace else entirely. Maybe it’d been in the film, but Nick fell asleep in the middle and he can’t remember.

So Nick dismisses the compliment—or potential disaster, more like—and goes for the safe bet.

“Hey, I’m Nick.” He gives a little wave, then shoves his hands back in his jacket pockets.

"Meshach,” he says, smiling. “My mates call me Mesh, though, so you can, too."

Mesh’s voice is softer and higher than Nick was expecting—but it fits, actually.

“Good to meet you,” Nick says.

“Yeah, you too.” Mesh holds out his crumpled packet. “Y’want one?”

“Thanks, but I’m alright,” Nick says. “Always end up regretting it.”

“It’s a baccie, not weed or anything,” Mesh says.

“Yeah, I get sort of…” Nick fumbles around in his bag for his inhaler. He pantomimes a coughing fit.

“That’s actually… twee.” Mesh laughs, and it lights up his entire face. “Place like this, thought you’d have just poppers in your bag.”

“No, fresh out.” Nick has a wry little smirk at that.

Nick looks down, at the puff-puff he’s still holding out. He shoves it back into his bag, cheeks going hot.

Strong start here, considering his asthma does not, actually, bring all the boys to the yard.

"You here with somebody?" Mesh asks, leaning closer.

"Not exactly," Nick says. "Billy's long gone by now."

"Oh." Mesh takes a small step back.

"No, I mean, sorry—Billy's a mate. He's cute and like, _dead_ twinky, you know, so..."

"Ah." Mesh steps toward him again, his Adidas bumping Nick’s own trainers.

“Tends to wander off to a dark corner with a boy right quick." Nick shrugs. “Ten minutes or less.”

“Take bets, do you?” Mesh says.

“Sometimes we do.” Nick laughs. “Usually when we’re salty on account of not being twenty anymore.”

Mesh nods, and takes another drag. He turns his head to exhale the smoke away, and Nick stares. It’s hard to _not_ be drawn to his slender fingers clutching the cigarette, and even harder not to watch his lips, plump and pursed.

Mesh closes his eyes, just for a second, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. He looks immersed in the moment, enjoying his cig with an indulgent, patient ease. He’s in no rush.

Mesh catches Nick staring straight away. He doesn’t clock Nick on it, just looks back at him. Nothing needs to be said—he knows Nick likes what he sees.

Getting some ideas, Nick is, about Mesh on his knees in the dark alley round the corner, ideas about those hands wrapped around both their dicks in one of the club’s loo stalls.

But—No. Mesh seems like a person who’d fancy more than five rushed, fumbling minutes.

(Nick prefers having more time, too, when he has the choice. But he fancies what he’s given, and chases the opportunities. He is, in a word, easy.)

Not like it _matters,_ really, since Nick’s getting well ahead of himself.

Nick steels his shoulders and looks Mesh in the eyes. “I saw you dancing in there.”

It’s not a lie. Nick does remember seeing Mesh with a group of blokes—remembers the fluid movements of his dancing, the way he rolled his body with effortless confidence.

“Yeah? What’d you think?” Mesh tilts his chin up, like he’s used to compliments.

“You’re _dead_ good,” Nick says. “Move over, Madonna.”

“Thanks.” Mesh laughs. “I ought to be good—s’my job, after all.”

“Really?” Nick can’t keep the surprise off his face.

“Yeah, you clocked me.” Mesh doubles over with laughter. “Thanks for preing my moves in there. Made my night.”

“Glad to.” Nick bites his lip, hoping it could pass as seductive. “Maybe I could make your night even better.”

“Yeah, m’sure you could.” Mesh snorts another laugh.

Nick crosses his arms. “Not just taking the piss—I do mean it.”

“I’m not, either,” Mesh says. “Not at all.”

Mesh tosses his cigarette and turns back towards Nick, settling his hands on Nick’s waist. “Take me back to yours, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Nick chokes out, nodding. His breath seizes, and he bites the inside of his cheek, trying to not faint, or whatever, at the prospect.

“Do you stay nearby?” Mesh asks. His face goes bright with lust.

"I live right around the corner.” Nick cups Mesh’s hands, grasping them on his waist. His hands are a good deal bigger than Mesh’s, eclipsing Mesh’s grip with ease.

Maybe he’s given Mesh some ideas, too.

“Let me just say bye to my mates, alright?” Mesh says, stepping back.

“Okay.” Nick nods, and Mesh ducks back inside.

Once Nick’s alone, it takes exactly five seconds for his anxiety to set in. It’s blatant Mesh isn’t going to come back.

Clearly Mesh wanted a way to shake him off, since he’s too weird and too fidgety and his face is sort of funny, and he’s still sunburnt and wrinkly from Spain, and Mesh is definitely too kind to outright tell him no. So this is an easy out—a simple way to leave him, standing out in the cold like the biggest, most naïve loser in the history of the world.

And then Mesh emerges, shouldering past the bouncer and smiling as he walks toward Nick.

“Go on and lead the way,” Mesh says, patting Nick on the back.

“Yeah, alright,” Nick says, trying to remember where his house is.

They fall into stride together, Nick’s chest gone light and fluttery with anticipation. Nick glances at Mesh every few seconds. There's intention in his gaze and focus in his walk, like he’s noting each step.

 _Christ._ It’s always the quiet ones Nick goes hardest for. Much as he tries to curb his urges with a _heady_ dose of self-sabotage, he’s always lured back in—the draw of softness lurking behind him, even as the decades pass him by. It’s like a second shadow, only more annoying.

Nick hates it, some days. But he never can resist.

“You from around here?” Nick asks, shoving his hands back into his pockets.

“South London, actually,” Mesh says. “So not a big move staying in Soho.”

“You ever go by Freedom Bar?” Nick asks.

“Yeah,” Mesh brightens, nodding. “Love it. Can be bait sometimes, but drinks are cheap and it’s a good place to link up.”

“And Freedom has those stripper poles,” Nick says. “Spent many a live night there.”

“What more could you ask for, yeah?” Mesh laughs.

Nick steadies himself as he walks; he’d had a few drinks when he first got to the club, hoping to settle in. But here, alongside Mesh and his trust—faced with the task of leading him home— the responsibility fills Nick up. He sobers right quick.

Paragon Road is buzzing after midnight, six lanes of traffic congested from the clubs and bars. The stoplight across the intersection flashes red, beckoning them.

“We can make it, we’ve got ten,” Nick says, breaking into a run. He grabs Mesh’s hand, pulling him across the intersection.

Mesh laughs as they run, a bright little sound Nick catches over all the honking and general commotion.

“Made it.” Nick doubles over, laughing as he catches his breath.

“Yeah, barely.” Mesh laughs. “You’re _mad.”_

“Oh, sweetheart, you don’t know the half of it.” Nick giggles, giddy and alive.

"And you've got the clammiest hands of anyone I've ever met.” Mesh makes a face.

“Thanks.” Nick wipes his sweaty hands on his jeans.

"It's _alright,_ I was just making an observation." Mesh grins, cheeky. "I was bricking it my first time, too."

“Hey,” Nick huffs. "I've had my oats. _Plenty_ of oats…”

"Yeah, Grimmy, s’what they all say." Mesh makes a smug little face at him. He’s a pest, and Nick wants to snog him.

It’s almost time for that.

“I’m right over here,” Nick says, opening the gate to the front garden. He glances back. “I’ve got two dogs, that alright?”

“Yeah, I love dogs,” Mesh says.

“Good, because—” Nick pushes open the door. The dogs ambush them immediately. “They love company.”

“Aww.” Mesh kneels down and laughs as Pig licks his hands.

“Be good, doggies,” Nick says, sing-song. He’s happy to be back in his own home, relieved to be where things are more predictable, not like the club where chaos reigns.

Nick is turning out to be a homebody—at the ripe old age of thirty-four, no less—but he doesn’t much care anymore. Nick loves this house of his own creation, doesn’t even mind his own company most days. Having a cute bloke there with him is just a perk.

“What are they called?” Mesh asks as he scratches Stinky behind the ears.

“The big one is called Pig, and the other one is called Stinky Blob.”

“I can see which is your favourite.”

“I love all my children the same,” Nick protests.

Mesh covers Stinky’s ears and coos, “Nick loves little Pig more than you.”

Stinky just tilts his head.

“Rude.” Nick laughs. There’s that silly streak in Mesh surprising him again. Someone fit as Mesh doesn’t need to be funny, too—but it helps.

It helps a lot, in fact, since making Nick laugh is the easiest way to get him into bed.

Nick fidgets, torn between being a proper host and ripping Mesh’s clothes off right there in front of his poor dogs. They wouldn’t give two shits about it, probably.

“I can put your jacket away,” Nick says, toeing off his shoes and reaching out.

“Thanks.” Mesh hands his jacket and his cap to Nick. In the bright hall light, Nick can see the gradient of his fade, the clear sharp angles of his buzz and softly defined waves at the crown of his head.

Mesh looks around. “Your front hall is nice—least what I can see.”

“I do try.” Nick laughs. “I like collecting art and stuff.”

But _nice_ is what his mum says when she hates his new haircut and doesn’t want to insult him with her real opinion. Nice is what _he_ says when Pixie comes out of the fitting room, glowing, wearing an outfit that doesn’t do her any favours.

Nice is boring—a compliment that isn’t really a compliment.

“It’s well artsy in here,” Mesh says, glancing around some more. “I like your taste.”

“Thanks,” Nick says, his chest puffing out at the attention. _Now_ they’re getting somewhere.

“You’ve an eye for colour,” Mesh says. “Graphic design is my second major at uni, so I appreciate a good eye. Game spots game.”

Nick hums in a general sort of way, unsure how much is good for him to know. The more he knows about someone, the harder it is to see them out.

Nick bites his lip. “Do you want a drink?”

“No, it’s calm.” Mesh straightens up, wiping his hands on his trousers.

“I’ve got wine and, I think, scotch.” Nick shrugs. “Don’t know—got it as a gift.”

“S’that your bedroom upstairs?” Mesh asks.

“Yeah,” Nick says. He barely gets the words out before Mesh is sprinting up the stairwell.

“Rinsed you.” Mesh grins at him from the top.

“Two at a time?” Nick says, still huffing his way up. “Gassed, are we.”

Mesh shrugs. “I know what I want.”

And there’s nothing Nick can say to that, so he just leads Mesh down the hall and closes the door behind them.

In the dark of the bedroom, Mesh is on Nick without a second of hesitation, pressing him up against the wall and kissing him open-mouthed.

Nick moans into the kiss, caught by surprise. He clutches Mesh’s waist with both hands, his jutting hips sharp and muscular in Nick’s grasp.

There’s a fire inside Nick, stoked by Mesh’s ferocity. He’s gone right for it—surrendering eagerly to the wildness inside him, tucked carefully away behind his baby face. It’s all hot as fuck.

And there _is_ a fury in how Mesh is kissing him, sloppy and a little desperate, making sounds that emerge from low in his throat. Mesh digs his fingers into Nick’s shoulders as he kisses him, so hard Nick’s muscles ache with the dull pain of it.

“You _do_ know what you want.” Nick laughs.

“Told you,” Mesh huffs. He drags his fingers down Nick’s body, lingering as their tongues slide together.

Nick’s belly swoops as Mesh slides his hand over his stomach, slipping under his shirt and up to his chest.

Mesh tugs at Nick’s chest hair and growls softly under his breath. “Oh, that’s the good shit.”

“Yeah?” Nick grins at the attention, even as he winces through the sting.

“So bloody hot.” Mesh is wide-eyed, blatant in his arousal. He keeps his hand on Nick’s chest, running his hand over Nick’s chest hair and curling his fingers in it.

“Glad to be of service,” Nick says, biting his lip.

Mesh huffs again, scoffing softly. He runs his fingers over Nick’s mouth, sticky with spit, and pushes them in.

Nick moans and runs his tongue over Mesh’s slender fingers, sucking at the rough pads of them. He meets Mesh’s eyes, looking up at him and batting his eyelashes as he licks between Mesh’s fingers, sucking loudly.

“Christ,” Mesh mutters. He pushes his fingers deeper, shoving to the back of Nick’s throat. Nick doesn’t gag. “Fuck.”

Mesh takes his fingers back out, letting Nick’s spit drip down his chin.

“You know—” Nick wipes his mouth with his sleeve, breathless and grinning. “If y’want me to shut up, you can just tell me.”

“This is more fun, though.” Mesh goes in to kiss Nick again, jaw working as he kisses Nick hard and hungry.

Nick is glad to be snogged at all, if he’s honest. He’s had some good hook-ups and some horrible ones, and all the good ones involved snogging. And the lights being on.

Nick does enjoy _seeing_ the person he’s getting naked with. He’s a man of simple needs.

Nick fumbles for the light switch with one hand, his other hand spread on the small of Mesh’s back to keep him close. He gives up after a second, his hands sliding lower to cup Mesh’s arse.

Low light suits Nick better anyway, makes him more relaxed, neatly concealing his weak jawline and the soft pudge around his middle. Being in the dark is just fine.

Mesh pulls away so he can tug off Nick’s layers, fumbling off his army-green jacket and unbuttoning his soft red-checkered shirt.

“Keep it on,” Mesh says, his hands spread on Nick’s chest. “Proper rugged, that.”

“I like to embrace it.” Nick’s breath catches as Mesh runs over his nipples, digging his nails in against Nick’s chest. “Oh, yeah.”

Mesh moans softly and leans in to suck at the side of Nick’s neck, his tongue flicking against the thin chain of Nick’s necklace, making the hair rise on Nick’s arms.

Nick squeezes his eyes shut, rocking against Mesh’s thigh. He holds Mesh harder against him, letting his mind wash blank with need and his body burn warm with sensation.

“Bed’s over there,” Nick chokes out. He staggers back and flicks on the light switch, setting the dimmer to halfway. He sucks in his stomach instinctively, then pauses. He’d put in so many sessions with Georgie before holiday, determined to work off his late-night McDonald’s runs—and he’d mostly succeeded.

Mesh makes himself comfortable straight away, toeing off his shoes before stretching out at the head of Nick’s bed. Nick’s glad he feels welcome. He likes being a good host.

In the light, Mesh is all long limbs and warm brown skin, his legs endless in his pinstriped trousers. He doesn’t have any tattoos, at least none Nick can see. The thought of skin kept free of tattoos is… Well, it’s quaint. Everyone has tattoos now.

Perhaps Mesh does have a tattoo, a tiny one hidden on his ankle or his calf—an ill-advised zodiac sign on his thigh, maybe. Nick hardly knows anything about him. It’s thrilling.

Thrilling and naughty, even—dirty and delicious the way it is always is to shag a stranger.

“Would you put on music?” Mesh asks.

“Yeah, you’ve a preference?” Nick perches on the edge of the bed.

“You pick.” Mesh shrugs.

“Oh, that’s the _biggest_ turn-on for a DJ.” Nick groans.

“So bloody OTT.” Mesh laughs. “You’ve thirty seconds, or I’m starting without you. Swear down.”

“You’ve a real cruel streak, mate.” Nick laughs. He adds that to the list of surprises.

Mesh smirks and sprawls out on Nick’s bed, arms behind his head. It’s quite distracting, so Nick just picks a random Drake album and sets his phone down.

It’s not far for Nick to clamber over, not far at all. Nick leans down and kisses Mesh, licking into his mouth.

Mesh pulls him closer, clenching Nick’s legs between his thighs, and he pins Nick there with heels pressing in against his calves. Their bodies settle flush against each other, Nick rutting against him, the fabric of their trousers scraping alongside the sound of Mesh’s heavy breathing.

Mesh grabs Nick’s arse, and Nick moans, his dick throbbing. Mesh’s hard-on is pressed against his own semi, and Nick shudders.

There’s lube in the drawer, a new bottle Nick brought to Deia. He hadn’t touched it besides a long wank on an uneventful night. He screws up his face as he calculates the last time he’d eaten, relaxing when he remembers he hasn’t eaten since tea.

And then there’s Mesh, his hands firm and assured, his noises clear and encouraging. He seems to know what he’s doing, least as young blokes go. He’s got the experience to fuck Nick right.

Blokes in their twenties always come in two minutes. Still, it could be a _hot,_ memorable two minutes. Quality over quantity, after all—Nick’s proud of himself for remembering.

“Trousers off,” Mesh says, not a moment too soon. He shoves off his trousers and pants and reaches for Nick’s, and before Nick has time to catch up, they’re both starkers.

Nick kneels upright on the bed, warming in the heat of Mesh’s gaze.

Easy, this part is. The bedroom lighting conceals everything that needs concealing—and flatters Nick’s slim hips, showcases his thigh tattoos and his cock, which he quite likes. His cock is thick but not overly intimidating; maybe nowt to boast about, but it does feel good to boast anyway.

And it feels good to get wide-eyed reactions, like the one Mesh has on.

“Mm.” Mesh’s eyes glaze over, his lips parting as he looks Nick over, pleased. “Making my mouth water, if I’m honest.”

It’s Mesh’s cock that catches Nick’s eyes first, because of course. He finally gets a good look, and it’s flushed and pretty, so far as cocks go—and _very_ manageable. Would fit nicely in his clenched fist, squeezed tight in his grasp. Nick’s nothing if not practical.

So, yes—a proper fuck could be nice.

When Nick looks down lower, though, he outright gasps. Mesh’s slender waist swells out to thighs like tree trunks. His lower body is powerful—downright robust. He’s strong as _fuck._

"You _weren't_ taking the piss about the pro dancer thing,” Nick says, reaching out to squeeze Mesh’s thigh.

"You really thought it was jokes?" Mesh cackles outright.

"I mean..." Nick shrugs. “I’ve heard a lot of things from a lot of blokes.”

"I’d probably suss a bloke who was chirpsing me, too."

"You could smash a melon with those thighs,” Nick muses, stroking Mesh’s leg. It’s intoxicating, to experience the athletic body he’s always dreamed of. “Have you ever done?"

"No, not part of the studio warm-up.” Mesh snorts a laugh.

“Well, best keep it in mind.” Nick leans in and kisses Mesh’s neck, running a hand over his smooth chest and down to those breathtaking abs, firm and toned and quivering beneath Nick’s touch.

Mesh sighs and squeezes Nick’s forearm, his breath catching as Nick exhales hot against his ear. He grabs Nick’s hand and brings it lower.

That’s all the encouragement Nick needs, his own cock throbbing as he wraps his hand around Mesh’s cock, savouring the slick warmth and wet slide of Mesh’s foreskin, stroking him with a gentle, teasing touch.

Mesh shudders and jerks his hips up into it. He puts his hand on the back of Nick’s neck and brings him into an open-mouthed, panting kiss.

Nick tightens his grip on Mesh’s cock, licking into his mouth greedily. His blood goes electric as he feels Mesh’s hand drifting up his thigh with purpose.

It takes all Nick’s willpower to pull away.

“What’s your, um—your status?” Nick asks, breathless.

“It’s a little complicated,” Mesh says. “Good you asked.”

Nick sits back and lets Mesh gather himself. He _figured_ the good thing to do was ask.

After all, he’d shagged his way through Deia, snogging anybody fit who struck him as sweet and paid him some attention. He’d got on his knees for a few proper fit ones, too, safe and secluded and always in their dimly-lit hotel rooms.

In paradise, he’d rebounded from Josh, and then some.

It’s Nick’s birthday that always makes him _like this_ —anxious he'll hit some magic number, reach the ancient age where no one in the whole country will want him. Problem is, the number shifts as each year passes, and every year he dodges the bullet.

Nick frets about the day his luck will run dry. Sometimes, the worry consumes him. It’s the reason for his expensive little habits—acupuncture and cryo and facials and all the other things to keep wrinkles at bay. He wants to keep his body soft and smooth and almost young, for as long as he can hack it. Or at least as long as he can afford it. The standing appointments don’t come cheap.

Mesh sits up properly, tucking his legs underneath him. His abs ripple as he sets his shoulders back—and he, well. He _does_ seem like he wants Nick.

"I went to the clinic about a month ago,” Mesh says. “Came out clean for all except chlamydia. But I'm through with the antibiotics for it—finished the meds Thursday."

This is a lot of information for Nick's sex-addled brain to wrap around, but he’s grateful Mesh is so direct, like he’s eager to share now that Nick’s asked.

STI’s are just a part of life, almost expected in their circles. It isn’t a major _thing,_ not anymore—massively treatable and chatted about in casual conversation, not hushed tones.

Not a thing Nick learned about in school, mind, but he’d picked the info up along the way—literally—in the slag-fest of his twenties.

Nick says, cautious, "So you're good at the moment."

"Yeah, I mean, not a hundred percent. They said to wait a week or so to be sure it's cleared, but. I always use condoms and that."

Mesh is probably in the midst of his own slag-fest, and good for him. He _should_ chase pleasure, wherever he can find it.

"Well safe.” Nick nods. “Condoms are the best thing to come from the 1900’s, reckon.”

“Was 1800’s, actually.” Mesh laughs, and Nick doesn’t even mind being corrected. The moxie is kind of sexy. "What about you?"

"I got tested last week, and I haven't gotten all results yet, but HIV is negative. I've not been having any symptoms—no weird pain or bumps or—"

"Oozing,” Mesh offers. “I’ve seen the pamphlets enough times. I’ve read up on the oozing.”

"Fuck’s sake.” Nick cackles, the laugh rippling through his whole body. "No, no _oozing._ "

“Maybe oozing, or discussing oozing, is my secret fetish. You don’t know.”

"Shut the fuck up." Nick’s stomach starts to ache from laughter. "Gross."

"Made you laugh," Mesh says, smug. "Put a pin in all ooze-related discussion?"

"Yes. _God."_ Nick wipes a tear from his eye and sobers. Softer, he says, "Thanks for, like. Telling me. Being honest."

"Well, of course—s'only fair." Mesh shrugs.

"Are you more a top, or a bottom, then?" Nick says.

"More a switch, actually," Mesh says. "You seem like a power bottom, though. Try and give off vibes you just top, but you secretly love getting it up the arse.”

"You’re... not wrong." Nick swallows hard.

“On the money, am I?” Mesh raises his eyebrows, challenging.

"Yeah,” Nick nods. “I do love it.”

“Good. Because I'm keen on fucking you, if that's alright."

Nick laughs, giddy with relief.

"What?" Mesh says. "I’m just asking."

"I'm not laughing at you, Mesh. Swear down. I was just—yeah, thinking the same.”

"So it's a yes." Mesh tilts his head, a cautious look on his face. There’s a cheeky little smile quirking his lips, like he knows, but wants Nick to say it.

 _“Yes,_ it’s a yes.” Nick rolls his eyes. “I would fancy it up the arse. Happy?"

“Quite pleased. Get on your back, would you?” Mesh says, ushering Nick to lay down.

Nick grabs everything from the bedside table before settling back against the pillows.

"Can I lick you out?" Mesh asks. He licks his lips like a reflex, or maybe a preview.

“Mm.” Nick wrinkles his nose. "I don't really like that, soz."

“S’alright,” Mesh says, shrugging.

(Nick loves being licked out, truth be told. But he needs to know a person for about ten years before he can relax into it. A treat, it is—rarer than a solar eclipse.)

“I like fingers, though,” Nick says, because he does.

“Good, because—be tricky without fingers.” Mesh reaches for a pair of form-fitting gloves.

"I've done it before,” Nick says. “Not too hard."

"I'm sure you're _great_ at taking dick, sweetheart."

"Show you,” Nick huffs.

"Yeah, you better." Mesh laughs softly, low in his throat.

Nick brings both his legs to his chest, tucking his hands under his knees and spreading himself to give Mesh ample access.

Mesh kneels between Nick’s legs. He runs his hand over Nick’s rose tattoo, down to his knee. Nick startles at the direct eye contact. Too close for comfort, that.

“Get on with it, then.” Nick grins, his voice breathy. He drops Mesh’s gaze.

Mesh prods a slick finger cautiously against Nick’s hole, waiting for him to relax before going further. He gets his other hand round Nick’s cock, confident in his tight strokes.

“Mm,” Nick says, encouraging. He hopes Mesh won’t go slow.

Even with Mesh’s one finger shoved deep, it doesn’t feel like much to Nick—just a bit clinical and foreign, the way it always feels with a new person.

“Can do two.” Nick’s eager for more, but he’s above begging. He’ll settle for a shameless, direct hint.

“How about one first?” Mesh says, scoffing a bit.

“If you say so.” Nick shrugs, even though he’s still got something to prove—always does.

“Bloody size queen,” Mesh mutters.

“Good on you for noticing.” Nick grins and tips his chin up, smug.

“I won’t fist you, if that’s what you’re after.”

“Christ.” Nick chokes out a laugh. “I didn’t _say that._ I’m a simple man—I like two fingers.”

“I’ll do two soon,” Mesh says, thrusting a little faster and rougher with his middle finger inside Nick.

“Two fingers is, like, exactly the width of your dick,” Nick says helpfully. “And it feels better.”

“Thanks, but—” Mesh laughs. “I know what I’m doing.”

Nick frowns. “I like chatting. It’s sort of my thing.”

“No, it isn’t bad—I just focus better with quiet.”

“Mm.” Nick hums, relieved. “Reckon I could get, like, fifty percent less chatty.”

“That’s good enough.” Mesh smiles at him big, and Nick has the distinct urge to hop off the bed and go hide in the en-suite. He doesn’t _want_ to bask in Mesh’s warm smile—he wants to flee.

Mesh is right; he _is_ mad. Nick _must_ be mad, because he loves attention, needs it more than he does oxygen.

It’s just—he never gets the timing right. Nick’s had sex when he’s chased love, gotten love when he wanted sex. And romance? As if. Romance is a pipe dream. Romance is not in his operating manual.

Boyfriends or lovers or fitties he pulls outside clubs, it’s always Nick’s bloody timing. His clock is off, his parts were assembled wrong—whatever it is he’s aiming for, he always fucks it up.

Nick startles when he hears Mesh speak.

“You’re tensing up a bit,” Mesh says, caution in his voice. “Maybe s’the position, yeah?”

Nick nods, grateful for an easy out. “Yeah, give me a minute.”

Mesh brings his finger out and sits back, giving Nick some space. He reaches for the bottle of lube, fiddling with the lid.

Nick settles both his legs down before bringing just one back up. Having one foot down for stability helps him breathe easier—fills him immediately with calmness. He leans his head to the side to smooth out any neck rolls, and looks down at his chest hair to make sure he’d got all the dreaded greys earlier.

Nick sighs and tries to steady his churning stomach, clenching his hands in the duvet to suppress the urge to bolt.

Nick looks over at Mesh, and their eyes meet. There’s still desire in Mesh’s eyes—and desire is Nick’s safest place.

Hope spikes through Nick, a tiny lightning bolt inside him. He hasn’t messed this up, not yet.

Maybe he can get it right this time. Maybe one night with a gorgeous stranger _can just_ be that.

“Good,” Nick says, nodding. “Ready again.”

Mesh kneels between Nick's legs, sliding one finger back inside him. He gets his other hand round Nick's cock, holding him steady so he can get his mouth on it, flicking his tongue on the upstroke as he bobs his head.

Nick moans, warm with pleasure, and Mesh moans, too, eager.

Mesh goes for a slow lingering pace with his hand, full strokes of his finger inside Nick, the thrusts leading one into the other, and then a quicker, hungrier pace with his mouth, eager bobs of his head halfway, not much time for Nick to relax into it before Mesh is licking his lips and ducking down again.

Even with Mesh's indecisive rhythm, it's all sublime—Nick having something inside him to clench against while Mesh's mouth is all slick wet heat, surrounding his cock more and more as Mesh gradually tries to bring him deeper and deeper, closer to the back of his throat.

Mesh's gloves are slick, the material smoothing over the friction from his callused hands, so when he adds a second finger, it's an easy, fluid slide in. The difference with the second finger is immediate—two makes him feel fuller, and it isn’t poky like one finger is. Just feels natural.

"Can I put my hand here?" Mesh asks, hovering over Nick's stomach.

Nick hesitates. Some blokes have been dead into his grooming situation, nuzzling him raw and obsessively praising him.

"I like how you keep your hair more natural," Mesh says. " _Bare_ hot."

One bloke Nick pulled was keen on shaving him, actually, so Nick let him have a go out of curiosity. His belly was blotchy and prickly for weeks after.

"Yeah, s'fine," Nick says, shrugging. Mesh seems to fancy his body hair the normal amount.

Besides, being touched was kind of the point for all the pre-Spain workouts.

Mesh touches Nick's tensed stomach gently, caressing the dark hair around his navel. He hums appreciatively, and Nick relaxes.

More words stay poised on the tip of Nick's tongue, weird little details about how the bloke had shaved him without saying anything, claiming he could only concentrate in total silence. The assurance the bloke needed after, while Nick pressed tissue to his dozens of tiny cuts, to feel he'd been good.

Nick bites it back. It's already enough, letting Mesh in like this, making room in his bed, surrendering to his touch. Sharing stories is a whole new animal.

"It's so soft. Kind of want to rub my face in it." Mesh laughs, running his hand along Nick’s curly little belly hairs. "But... your face is telling me not to."

"Yeah, maybe not." Nick laughs softly. Though there _is_ a part of him that wonders what it might be like, to let Mesh nuzzle his belly to his heart’s content. “Bit too much, that.”

Mesh nods. "It's not my fetish or anything," he says. "I just like it."

"I get that." Nick shrugs. "Some people get carried away with how _utterly_ sexy I am. Don't blame you."

Mesh snorts. "Glad to see your ego’s doing fine."

"If my ego was tangible—like, a thing—it'd be as big as me, reckon." Nick laughs.

"Allow it." Mesh laughs, too. "Thought you were gonna cut back on talking."

"Alright, alright, now I'll do." Nick grins. "Or try, at least."

"Fuck's sake." Mesh rolls his eyes, but he smirks as he starts up again, shallow thrusts of his fingers inside Nick, opening him up slowly.

Mesh brings his other hand down, following the trail of stray hairs down to the base of Nick’s cock. He trims his areas, sometimes, to keep it even and not too wild, but mostly he just lets it be.

 _"This_ might be my fetish, actually, with how gassed I was when you got your pants off.” Mesh closes his eyes. He looks blissful. “That and, like, other things… Obviously.”

“Obviously.” Nick squirms. It’d be so easy to let Mesh continue like this, to encourage his praise and his earnest enthusiasm. "Bit ticklish, me.”

“Sorry.” Mesh stills his hand, but he keeps it there on Nick's belly, laying his hand flat and pressing down in just the right place.

Nick moans softly, relaxing into the pressure. In the silence, he can steal a moment to finally bask in the pleasure of Mesh’s hands all over him, beginning to unwind his deepest defenses.

Mesh's hands are smaller than his, and defter—maybe from all that dancing—so he finds Nick's prostate without much prodding around, brushing over it with just the tips of his fingers.

Nick gasps, startled at how immediate and profound the pleasure is, instantly making him feel like he’s on the brink of orgasm.

"Oh, God..." Nick moans deeply. He shoves his knuckles in his mouth, biting down so the pain will keep him grounded. The feeling passes, as he knows it will, but it’s just a moment before Mesh brushes again over his prostate, and his cock spurts precome, a puddle of it forming on his belly.

“You’re a squirter, that’s fun,” Mesh says, licking it up, and staying there for a moment as Nick keeps on going, more and more while he rubs in soft circles.

Nick doesn’t have time to protest or even laugh before he’s sighing deeply, his body going white-hot with pleasure as Mesh sucks on the head of his cock with two fingers stretching him, thrusting quick and deep.

“Go more slow and steady—soft, yeah, like that." Nick grasps the pillows just for something to hold onto, his eyes squeezed shut, surrendering to the feeling. It’s fucking overwhelming, to have Mesh working those fingers along with his mouth, his hand against Nick’s pelvis pressing against his prostate from the outside while he rubs at the inside.

Mesh goes deeper, with these gorgeous wet sounds of his tongue Nick can hear over his own harsh breathing. With eyes half-open, Nick can see the spit shiny on his face, Mesh’s eyes heavy-lidded as he stares up at Nick. Mesh brings his other hand in to cup Nick’s bollocks, rubbing even more spit all over him, and it’s _unbearably_ hot.

“ _Yeah,_ get sloppy with it,” Nick chokes out, jerking his hips up slightly to meet the slick warmth of Mesh’s mouth, the friction of his own movements making his legs go weak. There’s no leverage in this position, though—no way to get what he needs, laying like this.

Nick pokes Mesh’s cheek, gently pushing his face away so he can wrap a hand around his cock instead, writhing into the familiar stroke of his own hand, toes curling as he pushes his foot up against Mesh’s shoulder for stability.

"I can do both things," Mesh says, ducking back down.

"No, s’okay—I got it." Nick waves him away.

Mesh huffs but he does sit back, keeps thrusting into Nick slow and steady with two fingers.

It’s trickier than Nick thought it might be, wanking himself off while holding his leg up, especially when both his legs start quivering, the pleasure climbing up through him in an overwhelming wave.

A wave that ebbs away as Nick struggles to keep a rhythm to it all, muttering under his breath and digging his fingers in against his bent thigh, frustrated.

Nick stammers, “Here—Want to—Hold my leg up.”

“Say please,” Mesh says, stalling his fingers inside Nick.

“Such a—a _prick._ ” Nick huffs a laugh, his smile fading out into a desperate whine as Mesh picks up the pace again, thrusting into him roughly. Pleasure _is_ the best incentive, full stop.

Even so, Nick huffs, “Not asking your permission.”

“If you want help, you’ll say it,” Mesh raises his eyebrows with infuriating, sexy smugness, and slows his fingers, enough to get Nick nearly there, and Nick’s utterly helpless to it, he is.

Nick whimpers, “Ugh, please, please, need you to—So close—”

“Easy, that.” Mesh hums and settles his hand in the bend of Nick’s knee, keeping him spread open.

“Oh, yeah, fuck—” Nick cries out, his breath catching in his throat, sounds stuttering out from deep inside him.

Nick’s hands brush as his fingers wrap around his cock and his other hand presses against his belly, touching himself outside while Mesh’s fingers are moving inside, and his stomach quivers as he grows close, his whole body surrendering to orgasm so strong he actually goes speechless, clenching around Mesh and pulsing at his own hand—shuddering so intense his head throbs as he comes down, light-headed and grinning.

“ _Told_ you I could multi-task,” Mesh says, tilting his chin up.

“Yeah, well.” Nick laughs, breathing hard. “Now I bloody know you can.”

Mesh hums and slides his fingers out, shedding the glove with an abrupt little snap.

Nick squints at Mesh’s face through his spotty vision, trying to place the mood behind Mesh’s furrowed brow and tight lips.

“Didn’t mean to come so quick,” Nick says. His stomach churns. “Sorry if you’re disappointed, or whatever.”

"No, no, it's alright." Mesh’s face clears. “I’m not vexed about it.”

“Yeah.” Nick’s ears and cheeks still burn. “Just sort of… happened.”

Mesh shrugs. "Reckon that’s a compliment, isn’t it.”

“True,” Nick says, breathing a bit easier. “ _S’quite_ a compliment.”

"Do you, um, still want—” Mesh says. “I can take care of myself, if—"

"I still want to." Nick laughs. "Easier when I’ve had mine, anyway. More relaxed."

“Oh. Good,” Mesh says, nodding. “How do you like it?”

“Hmm.” Nick pauses. His gut reaction is to let Mesh choose, but he swallows past it. “From behind, like, leaned over the side of the bed. With you standing.”

“Good pick,” Mesh says, and Nick feels lighter inside.

They go about arranging themselves so they fit, Nick actually quite comfortable sprawled on his belly over the lush duvet. He feels Mesh’s heat behind him, their legs bumping as Mesh stretches over, reaching for the bottle of lube and a new glove.

Nick props himself up on quivering arms. He arches his back, pushing his arse up and out. There’s nowhere to hide now, nowhere at all.

“Go and get deep with it,” Nick says. His body steadies with the words, his arms and legs holding him up with more confidence. “Want you to.”

“Okay,” Mesh says. His fingers brush Nick’s arse, holding him open and letting their bodies communicate the pace.

Mesh guides his cock in with one slow slide, and moans a deep breath out, his hand settling on Nick’s back.

Nick's breath seizes with how it hurts—a familiar dull, searing heat. He grits his teeth. It'll pass soon enough.

And there _is_ pleasure there, always, in the fullness and the stretch of a cock inside him, the brash filth of this whole thing. Filthy and raw and incomparable—bringing a stranger home and getting properly fucked.

“You alright?" Mesh asks. He stops moving inside Nick, running his hand along Nick’s lower back.

"Yeah." Nick grimaces, grateful Mesh can't see his face. Tension rises up in his shoulders and his back. Still, he’s endured worse.

"Sure I used enough lube?" Mesh's voice goes a bit soft, a bit stammery. It's the only time Mesh has sounded uncertain.

“You did.” Nick takes a deep breath. "Actually, um—could use a minute. Hurts a bit."

"I don't think it's supposed to hurt," Mesh says.

"Yeah, I _know_ it's not supposed to hurt," Nick says. "Everybody knows that."

"I'll pull out," Mesh says, already clutching Nick's waist for leverage and starting to move.

"No, no, no," Nick says, harsher than he means it. "Stay in me. I just need a minute to adjust."

"Oh. Okay. I can do," Mesh says. "You tell me when, yeah?"

"Yeah, alright." Nick nods, his face flushing hot.

He always gets himself in these _situations._ These situations with these blokes barely twenty, who don't actually know what they're doing, but make off like they do, and...

God. He always fucking does this. Always fucking trusts, even when he knows he shouldn't.

There's that awkward moment of adjusting, and readjusting, and it’s even worse making Mesh wait. The music’s stopped, too, as they’ve reached the end of the Drake album.

Nick clenches his jaw, bracing himself for the inevitable _I told you so._ He's been boasting all bloody night about how he can take dick effortlessly. Nick hates swallowing his pride even more than he hates being a bother. His stomach churns, again, with shame.

But there’s just silence—so quiet Nick can hear Mesh's steady breathing as he waits.

As Nick tries to steady his own breathing, he feels exposed. Even with his feet on the floor and the soft mattress underneath his body, even with Mesh’s dick inside him, he feels a raw kind of lonely, like he’s hanging from the edge of the universe.

Mesh puts his hands on Nick's waist, and Nick breathes out, grounded.

It’s touch that keeps him from the ledge. Always, it’s touch.

"Sorry,” Nick blurts out. “It's been a minute since..."

"Yeah, me too," Mesh says. "I'm, um—I'm more of a bottom, actually."

"Could have fooled me," Nick says, his face darkening. It’s clear now, the way Mesh _had_ fooled him. And the way he’d gone right on and let it happen.

Nick mutters, "You're dead good with those hands."

“No, I’m serious.” Mesh's voice is firm, and Nick believes him. "I, like—I've only topped a few times."

"It's alright," Nick says, relieved to have the truth. His anger melts away.

"Yeah, it is?" The relief in Mesh's voice is visceral. "Really?"

"It's alright to me," Nick says. "It's different being experienced more as a bottom, than as a top. Helps to do both, when you can—more the better, I think. S’just me, though. I'm easy.”

Nick adds, "Roles overlap, yeah, but it's a _proper_ different experience. I get it."

"Yeah, it really is different." Mesh goes quiet for a moment. It’s an uncertain silence. "Are you alright?"

"I'm doing absolutely fine, Mesh, I am." Nick bites his lip. "Just—would you hold my shoulders, not my middle?"

"Yeah, definitely." Mesh slides his hands up, gripping Nick’s shoulders with confidence. He says, impressed, "Your shoulders are quite toned."

“Thanks.” Nick exhales deep. "Don’t grab me hard, though, since I’m sunburnt."

"I can see that." Mesh hums and relaxes his grip. He rubs Nick’s flushed skin with his thumbs, too, just a whisper of a touch. "Wish I could get freckly like you."

"You can have mine." Nick laughs softly. "Just got back from holiday and the Spanish sun did _not_ nice me."

"Well,” Mesh says. “I'll nice you properly—at least for the night."

Nick melts. A certain softness blooms deep in his belly, even though he’s sure Mesh doesn't _mean_ it, not really. Just one of those things you say to the bloke you've got your dick inside of.

Mesh is a nice person—Nick knows how this goes. He knows what nice people say.

“How’s that sound?” Mesh says.

"Nah,” Nick says. “You can fuck me like you mean it. I’m keen."

"Yeah?" Mesh voice tips up at the question, excited.

"I can take it." Nick nods.

"Good now?" Mesh goes breathy—and God, Nick wants to be fucked.

"Yeah," Nick says. "Could use more lube, though."

Nick turns his head, and there's this smug look on Mesh's face, like he's triumphed by making Nick bloody communicate, or whatever.

Nick huffs softly, quieting right up when Mesh’s slick cock presses back against his hole.

Mesh sets his hands on Nick’s shoulders again, just hard enough for leverage as he pushes inside him, going deep. He rolls his hips into it at first, his thrusts slow and fluid and _confident._

“Fuck…” Nick groans. It feels better this time, the way it should—his body flooded with warm pleasure lingering all the way up to his chest. “Fuck, yeah.”

“Yeah, alright?” Mesh laughs soft and breathy, pressing one of his hands between Nick’s shoulder blades, rough and dirty and good.

“ _So_ good,” Nick moans, indulgent with joy.

"Feels bare good for me, too," Mesh says, with another breathy laugh.

“You can go faster,” Nick says, trying to raise his voice so he’s not muffled, though he’s sure he is. Fuck all he knows about projecting his voice—retained nothing in uni, apparently.

But when Mesh picks up the pace, Nick’s mind goes blank and he’s not worried anymore, the landscape of his racing thoughts smoothed out by all-consuming pleasure.

Nick pushes back against Mesh to get him even deeper, keen to be balls-deep. Nick moans louder as he gets what he’s after, louder to match the filthy slap of skin against skin. He doesn’t even care that Mesh clocked him so easily, just by looking at him. He _is_ a power bottom and fucking loves it, loves controlling the pace and finding a place where he can chase what he wants, and—

Mesh moans, “Ugh, go on, put your back into it, yeah—”

And it hits Nick in his _bones._

Nick wants to feel good. Of course he does. He wants to feel good and he wants to _be_ good, too. Get Mesh off, reciprocate properly. Making it good for him would feel best of all.

So Nick puts his fucking back into it, bringing himself up on straightened arms so he can gyrate, rolling his hips and sliding over the head of Mesh’s cock.

“Grab my hips,” Nick says. “Grab me—wherever you want—” The words spill from Nick’s loose lips, and he doesn’t have time to think about it before Mesh does, grabbing his hips roughly with both hands, fingers digging in to the soft pudge around Nick’s middle.

Nick relaxes into Mesh’s touch, warming to his firm hands, fiercely eager to give Mesh what he’s earned.

“Oh, fuck, yeah—” Mesh exhales, loud with hunger and desperation. “Keep on doing—Nick, _fuck—”_

Mesh grips Nick’s shoulder, digging in harsh and right in to Nick’s raw, sunburned skin, the other hand pressing firm against the bone of his hip, and Nick starts to ache but there’s something brilliant about the pain, a heat in the single-minded focus, and Nick huffs as he keeps on rocking in little circles, his arms shaking and hands clenched in the duvet, eyes squeezed shut so he can focus just long enough.

“Oh, yeah, that’s—” Mesh’s voice drops off into a jagged little moan, one strained noise before he’s fucking into Nick deep, breathing out shaky and whimpering as he’s coming down.

“Fucking _hell,”_ Nick says, breathing hard. It’s more than he means to say, but it bursts out, irrepressible. “God, Mesh.”

“Yeah, I—Fucking hell is right.” Mesh laughs breathlessly. He pats Nick’s back with spread hands, soothing the ache he’d stirred up. “You’re great, thank you.”

“No, no—” Nick stammers. “Thanks, I—I think I really needed that.”

Nick bites his lip. That’s just about enough sharing for tonight.

“Glad s’mutual,” Mesh says. He smiles at Nick, wiping sweat off his forehead.

Nick flops onto his back, his chest heaving. He settles his hand flat on his belly and closes his eyes. He feels freer, light with contentment. He’d managed to let go.

It’s only about two seconds before Nick hears, “Oof—Oh, shit.”

Nick opens his eyes to see Mesh staggering back, grasping the wall to steady himself.

“Almost toppled over.” Mesh giggles.

“Properly done my night’s work, then,” Nick says, a pleased little smile slipping over his face. He’s unwilling to even fight it.

“And then some.” Mesh laughs. He tosses the rubber and the gloves in the bin beside the bed, then turns his back and heads toward the en-suite.

Nick watches Mesh walk away, catching a glimpse of the small tattoo on his arm. There’s this dark, coin-sized blur above his elbow; it can’t be anything but ink.

Nick’s face warms, like he’s uncovered a secret. He can’t tell what the tattoo is, not in the slightest. And, he thinks, he’s quite alright with not knowing. Some secrets are meant to stay secrets.

When Mesh comes back, he tosses a balled-up flannel at Nick. It lands with a slap on his belly.

“Thanks, arsehole,” Nick says, laughing softly.

But when Nick unfolds the flannel, it’s not scratchy—Mesh wet it, so it’s damp and warm. So now he gets to clean himself off, _and_ it doesn’t require him to get out of bed. Truly ideal.

“Very considerate of you,” Nick says, and means it.

Mesh shrugs. “No one likes a dry flannel.”

“Or a soggy bottom,” Nick says, wiping off his bits.

“Yeah, except you, maybe. Since you’re a bloody weirdo.”

“Not even me.” Nick laughs softly and he sighs, content.

Being clean means he gets to steal another moment laid in the haze, away from the burdens of reality—his ice-cold bathroom tiles, the hazards of pissing after sex, fumbling his contact lenses out.

Proper rough life he’s leading, with concerns like these.

Mesh grabs his pants and his trousers from the floor. The duvet dips as he sits on the edge of the bed to put them on.

And Nick can’t bear the thought of sending Mesh away alone, even fucked-out like this, spent and giddy as he is.

“It’s dead late,” Nick says, weighing the words. “I’ve more than enough room, if you want to stay.”

“Yeah, okay.” Mesh nods and smiles over at him, letting his trousers fall back into a pile on the floor. “I have to get up early for studio, though.”

“That’s alright.” Nick closes his eyes again, settling his hands back on his belly as he summons the strength to get up and go to the bog.

After a moment, Nick hauls himself up. His feet are unsteady once they hit the hardwood floor. He huffs a laugh—Mesh put in a decent night’s work on him, too.

Mesh climbs back onto Nick’s bed. He starts fluffing the pile of big white pillows, settling in, and stops when Nick glances at him.

“Go on, fluff the pillows all you want.” Nick yawns, waving his hand dismissively. He’s too knackered to even take the piss.

In the en-suite, Nick is useless beyond a quick wee. He drops his contacts case three times in the sink, spilling saline solution all over the counter in the process. He gives up and tosses the whole thing in the bin.

Nick comes back out, clutching his glasses by his side before putting them on the bedside table. He climbs into bed, leaving a couple feet of space between them.

Mesh spots the glasses immediately. He does a half-arsed job of holding back a giggle as he reaches over Nick to grab them.

“Put ‘em on, will you?” Mesh says. “Feel like it’d be very Jeff Goldblum.”

“I’m nowhere near as fit as Jeff Goldblum,” Nick says.

Or as _old,_ but that’s alright. Goldblum is well hot. Hollywood’s most underrated stud, in Nick’s lofty opinion.

Mesh is still looking at him, expectant, so Nick rolls his eyes and puts his glasses on anyway.

Nick makes a show of it, perching his chin on his hands and batting his eyelashes.

“I was right about the Goldblum thing.” Mesh hums. “Show you mine—fair is fair.”

And then Mesh does the Dele Alli gesture, miming frames over his face with both hands.

“Well posh, those.” Nick laughs, and it’s nice, it is—having company. "What do you like for brekkie?”

“What are my options?” Mesh says.

“Reckon I don't have much besides, like, Diet Coke and fruit, but might be able to pull off toast and eggs. Sausages, maybe, since I’m a chef and all.”

"Sounds good." Mesh yawns.

“I like to be a decent host when I can,” Nick says.

“Now you’re the one nicing _me.”_

“Don’t say that until you’ve had my sausages.”

“Already tried your sausages, though.”

“Awful.” Nick stifles a laugh. “I can still boot you out—you know that, don't you?”

“Yeah, anytime.” Mesh smiles, his eyes going soft and crinkly at the sides. “You can do, but you won’t.”

And Mesh is a _pest,_ with that smug look across his face—but he's smug for a reason.

Mesh is right. They both know he's right.

Nick wants to kiss him—wants to kiss him even more, with his chest all puffed out, with that hint of arrogance in his eyes. But that’s another thing Nick won’t do.

Still, it's quite nice—spending the night, sharing the bed. It’s nice not sleeping alone.

**Author's Note:**

> because i'm an utter sex nerd, i wanted to mention an author who inspired me in writing this. her name is esther perel, and she's incredible in her wisdom, and bold in how she always speaks her mind. i especially love her couples' counseling podcast called [ where should we begin.](https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/where-should-we-begin-with-esther-perel/id1237931798?mt=2)
> 
> send me love on [ tumblr,](http://misowithlizo.tumblr.com/post/183199061171) i'm all ears xx


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